


Love, In Countless Ways

by elrhiarhodan



Series: The Wonder(ful) Years Verse [37]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage, Slash, alternative universe, wonder(ful) years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 21:15:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9289919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: It's Christmastime in The Wonder(ful) Years, and Peter has a minor accident when he picks up a special present for Neal.    This is complete and utter schmoop.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sherylyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherylyn/gifts).



> Written for Day 7 of Fic-Can-Ukah, for [](http://sherylyn.livejournal.com/profile)[sherylyn](http://sherylyn.livejournal.com/), who selected the prompt "Soaking in a tub". She'd originally asked for a story in the Wonder(ful) Years 'verse but I'd told her I'd just written something that involved bathtub in that world, so she gave me permission to write in any verse. But then I got completely and utterly bunnied by [](http://kanarek13.livejournal.com/profile)[kanarek13](http://kanarek13.livejournal.com/)'s first offering for the 2015 White Collar H/C Advent, [Hard Fall](http://kanarek13.livejournal.com/125540.html) and everything fell into place.

"Aw, damn."

Peter looked up from what he was doing and asked, "What's the matter?"

"We're out of maple syrup." Neal shook his head, as if he couldn't figure out how that was possible.

"So, no pancakes tomorrow." Peter couldn't hide his disappointment.

"And no glazed duck breast for Christmas dinner. No maple-glazed bacon. No sweet and sour Brussels sprouts. I didn't bring any because I thought we had at least a quart left."

"I think Moz might have helped himself to it." A few weeks ago, they had celebrated Thanksgiving here at the cabin. His dad came up with them, and Moz and El and their kids joined them, too.

"It's bad enough he steals our wine, but our maple syrup, too?"

"Do you want me to arrest him?"

Neal laughed. "Nah. But if you wouldn't mind making a trip into town and getting some more, that would be most appreciated."

"No, I wouldn't mind at all." Actually, Peter was eager to get into town, and replacing the purloined maple syrup was a heaven-sent excuse. "Is there anything else you need, want, or desire?"

"Desire?" Neal turned around, blue eyes glowing. "I think you just said the magic word."

Peter growled and grabbed Neal. He bent him back over his arm and kissed him like they were posing for the cover of a romance novel. "Tonight. If I do with you what I want, I'll never get to town before the stores close."

Neal let out a dramatic sigh and pushed at him. "Okay, fine. If maple syrup is more important than sex, go."

"If I get the gallon jug, maybe we can experiment." Peter waggled his eyebrows.

"Only if you do the clean-up!"

Peter chuckled. "I'll see if I can find some of that chocolate sauce you like, too. And maybe some whipped cream while I'm at it."

Neal blushed.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Their cabin was a thirty-minute drive to the nearest town, the rather unimaginatively named Greenhill. While tree farms, private homes, and vast stands of sugar maple dominated "their" side of the mountains, most of the recreation and hospitality industry was a little further east. Greenhill sat right between the two communities and profited from both. When Peter had first seen the town, he thought it sort of too bland and touristy - too much like a Currier and Ives print - to be real. But after a few years, he'd come to appreciate it.

Of course Neal loved Greenhill's foodie culture - the shops that specialized in locally grown and produced ingredients. Not just the state's vaunted maple syrup, but cheeses, preserves, meats, and even alcoholic beverages. Peter had to admit that beer from the town's microbrewery was exceptional.

As much as he enjoyed the local ale, that wasn't the real reason why he needed to go into town. In addition to the dozens of art galleries and shops highlighting the Vermont craft industry, Greenhill had an incredible rare book store.

A few months ago, when he and Neal were in Vermont for a long weekend, they'd been wandering through town and Neal had spotted a book of poetry in the store's window. It was a first edition of _Aurora Leigh_ , an epic poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Neal had commented that it was a pity they didn't have the first edition of _Sonnets From the Portuguese_.

Peter hadn't said anything, he'd just squeezed Neal's hand and made a mental note to track a copy down. After they'd gotten back to New York, he'd made inquires at a dozen rare and used book dealers. To his dismay, good copies of the first edition were hard to find. Oh, there were plenty that had been cheaply printed on acidic paper and bound in cardboard, but Peter wanted the more luxurious edition, with gilded edges and bound in leather. This was a gift to commemorate one of the best days of their lives, and it had to be perfect.

Three days ago, he'd gotten a call from the manager at the rare bookstore in Greenhill, where they'd seen the copy of "Aurora Leigh". The store had located a nearly-pristine first edition of _Sonnets_ and they'd have it for him by Christmas Eve.

The drive into Greenhill was pleasant and Peter got himself really into the seasonal spirit by playing some Christmas carols - the ones that Neal loathed. He sang along with _Jingle Bell Rock_ and _Home For the Holidays_ \- the two that Neal despised the most. It was a perverse sort of pleasure because Peter didn't care for them either, but unlike his husband, his blood pressure didn't skyrocket the moment he got within hearing distance.

Peter made a quick stop at the Greenhill General Store to get a jug of maple syrup, the jokingly promised chocolate sauce and a can of Reddi-Whip.

The cashier made a snarky comment as she packed the three items. "Don't forget to stop at the drug store and pick up your insulin."

Peter just raised an eyebrow and left. He dropped the groceries in the car and walked over to the bookstore. It had started to snow and a light dusting coated the sidewalks, but the shopkeepers were already out with brooms and sand and salt.

He went into the bookstore and waved to Megan, one of the store owners. She was busy with another customer but told him she'd be able to help in a few minutes.

"No rush, I'll look around. He'd gotten Neal a few other things for Christmas - a pair of vintage Cartier cufflinks, a custom-made kaleidoscope, and a dick shot printed in black and white and framed in sterling silver. It would go with the dick shot Neal had given him _last_ Christmas. Still, an art book or two would be a welcome addition to the pile of gifts for Christmas morning.

But he didn't find anything that would pique Neal's interest - at least anything that Neal didn't already own.

"Mr. Burke, I'm so glad you were able to make it in before Christmas." Megan came over to greet him. "Sorry for making you wait, we're a little short staffed today."

"That's not a problem, and it's certainly a pleasure to browse here."

Megan smiled. "Come, I have the book and I hope it's what you're looking for."

Peter joined her at the register and waited patiently as she pulled out a small parcel and unwrapped it with great ceremony.

"I know it took a while, but I think this is what you're looking for."

"Yes." The book was a beautifully bound copy of _Sonnets From the Portuguese._ Peter ran a gentle finger over the green leather, appreciating the softness. "First edition?"

Megan nodded. "And note, the edges are smooth, not deckle. And given the quality of this binding, they are gilded."

Peter had noted that. A few years ago, he had worked on a case that required a certain level of expertise in rare and antique books. To his surprise, Peter learned that the choppy or "deckle" edge that modern publishers touted as a sign of quality and hand-made craftsmanship was the exact opposite of that. Until the beginning of the twentieth century, smooth edged books were much more expensive to manufacture, and wealthy people would often have their copies custom bound and the edges gilded.

"It's beautiful and just what I was hoping you'd find."

"Unfortunately, it's not perfect." Megan sighed and frowned. "It hasn't been signed by the author and there's a bookplate from the original owner's library. It also has a personal inscription."

Peter knew that anything added to a book except for an author's signature or inscription greatly reduced the value. He could use that as a bargaining tool.

Then Megan opened the book to show him and all thoughts of asking for a price reduction evaporated.

_"To N - With all my love forever, P"_.

"I thought that was a charming coincidence, especially if you're buying the book as a gift for Mr. Caffrey."

"It is, and there's no question that I'll take it."

They discussed the price that Megan had originally quoted and Peter didn't even wince as he handed over the cash he'd brought with him.

"Do you want me to wrap it?"

"Please. I'd like to give it to Neal tonight, for Christmas Eve."

Megan smiled. "I'll have this finished in a few minutes."

Peter sighed, happy with the purchase and the timing, and wished Megan a very sincere Merry Christmas when she handed him the book, wrapped in shiny blue paper and a matching bow.

As he left the store, Peter couldn't help but notice that the snow was coming down much heavier and most of the shops had closed or the owners had given up on the shoveling. Humming a few bars from one of Neal's preferred carols, _O Come Emmanuel_ , he made it halfway back to his car when he slipped on a patch of ice and landed on his ass.

A few people saw him fall and rushed to help him up.

"You all right, mister?"

Peter nodded and shook himself. "Just got the wind knocked out of me." His butt and hip would be sore tomorrow, but there wasn't any serious damage.

"You dropped this." Another good Samaritan handed him the book. "I hope it wasn't anything fragile."

"No, thank goodness. And thank you for your help." Peter dusted the snow off the wrapping paper and tucked the package inside his jacket. "Merry Christmas."

The people who had helped him drifted away, probably eager to get home to their own families. Peter walked very slowly and very carefully back to his car. Just as he was pulling out of town, his phone rang, filling the vehicle with the theme from _Dragnet_. Neal periodically changed the ringtone assigned to his number and the sounds he chose usually annoyed him, but this one wasn't bad.

He answered the call. "What's up? I'm on my way back." He hoped that Neal didn't want him to pick up anything else.

_"Just getting a little worried. The snow's really coming down and you've been gone a lot longer than I thought you'd be."_

"Sorry about that."

_"Is everything okay?"_

Peter sighed. "I slipped on the sidewalk, and yes - I'm fine. Just a little sore."

_"Are you okay to drive?"_

"Yeah. Landed on my ass, nothing broken. But I have the heated seat turned on to high, and I should be home soon."

_"Okay - just take it slow."_

"Will do."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter appreciated that Neal didn't fret and hover over him. It was just a little tumble and he wasn't some fragile old man. At least not yet.

But Neal did fuss, just a little. "You have your choice - the bathtub upstairs or the hot tub on the deck." The deck was in the lee of the house and provided that they weren't in a blizzard, it was actually kind of pleasant to soak in it during a gentle snowfall.

"Will you join me?"

Neal laughed and shook his head. "Of course. You know I can't resist you when you're wet and naked. I never could. So, which is it?"

"I think the hot tub. But give me a few, okay?"

"Sure. You should take some Advil before you get really sore and stiffen up."

"Um, I think you like it when I stiffen up."

Neal chuckled and shook his head at the bad pun. Peter hung up his coat and headed upstairs. Before he'd gotten out of the car, he'd tucked Neal's present underneath his sweater and he needed to hide it.

Task accomplished, he undressed and put on a heavy terry cloth robe and matching slippers and took Neal's robe and slippers with him, saving his husband a trip upstairs.

He met Neal on the staircase, and handed him the slippers and robe. They both went back down and Peter watched with enjoyment as his husband got naked. He grabbed an open bottle of wine and a pair of glasses and headed out to the back deck.

Before heading up, Neal had taken the cover off the tub and swept away the snow that had accumulated on the decking. Steam rose off the water. Peter set the bottle and glasses down on the ledge built just for that purpose, stripped out of his robe and climbed into the tub. The hot water felt delicious against his skin and the aches that were beginning to make themselves known.

Neal joined him and pressed a few buttons on the control panel. One set the outside lights to low, another turned the music on, and the last put the water jets on.

As Peter reached for the wine, Neal stopped him. "You shouldn't drink if you've taken Advil."

Peter continued to pour, handing Neal a glass and filling his own. "But I haven't. We only have the PM stuff upstairs and I didn't want to fall asleep on you."

"That's considerate, but you might regret it when you can't get out of bed in the morning."

Peter sipped his wine and leaned back, letting the hot water and the bubbles do their magic. "I'll be all right."

Neal slid closer and put down his wine. "I worry about you. You get stoic and stupid sometimes."

"And I worry about _you_ , too. I know we're not getting younger, but we take good care of ourselves. I didn't break anything. And if I spend tomorrow with some aches and pains, it won't be the end of the world. We'll light a fire and sack out on the couch. We're on vacation, isn't that what we're supposed to do, anyway?"

Neal rested his head against his shoulder and Peter sighed in contentment. "How did we get to have such a wonderful life?" Tears formed a lump in his throat.

"We worked for it. Maybe we paid our dues when we were young, maybe everything we went through was to earn the happiness we have now."

The snow drifted gently out of the night sky and the jazzy sound of piano music played softly in the background. Peter leaned his cheek against Neal's curls and murmured,

_"How do I love thee, let me count the ways …"_

 

__

FIN


End file.
